


Stitched with Sincerity

by astrologicallyDubious (ruination_fangs)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:37:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2756420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruination_fangs/pseuds/astrologicallyDubious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, actions do speak louder than words. Even (especially?) when you're Rose Lalonde.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitched with Sincerity

**Author's Note:**

> [Really old fic](http://ruination-fangs.tumblr.com/post/31577012465/fyjr-fic-trade-roses-birthday-knitting) from the trade fuckyeahjohnrose @ tumblr hosted way back when. The prompt was Rose thanking John for her birthday gift but feeling that thanks didn't adequately express her feelings. I never uploaded it here because I can't do titles......

GT: hi rose!  
GT: and happy birthday!  
TT: Good evening.  
TT: And thank you.  
GT: did you get my package?  
TT: It arrived this morning. Your timing is excellent.  
GT: hehe. i totally planned that.  
TT: I have no doubt that you did.  
TT: Your powers of foresight astound.  
GT: so have you opened it?  
TT: I have.  
TT: I'll admit my own powers of foresight must be rather lacking. I hadn't prepared myself for knitting needles.  
GT: damn, look at me go. i'm perfectly punctual AND i surprised rose lalonde!  
GT: john 2, rose 0.  
TT: You win this time, John.  
TT: But rest assured I will return the favor.  
TT: Quite literally.  
GT: that is so sweet of you.  
GT: i'm looking forward to it.  
GT: but anyway!  
GT: you mean you were a good kind of surprised, right?  
TT: I suppose so.  
TT: It's not a hobby I have considered extensively, but I believe I'll warm up to it.  
TT: Thank you, John.  
GT: you're welcome!

 

\--

 

Your new copy of Knitting for Assholes turns out to be surprisingly helpful. By early February you consider yourself to have mastered a variety of stitches; you've long since used up the yarn John sent you, practice projects in blue and red and green scattered around your room. There's now a pile of purple yarn balls next to your bed, some half depleted and transformed into scarves and sweaters and a joke of a wine bottle sleeve for your mother, but your new pair of mittens is on hold – you've got a present to finish.

The last few weeks have found you making use of John's gift more and more, and every time you sit down with your needles you're forced to confront the truth: you find this quite enjoyable and you're very glad John suggested it to you.

You wrap a thread around your needle and try to cling to your initial response, that John meant subtly to insult you under the guise of well-wishing. Beneath his lack of tact he is friendly and caring and sweet and so much craftier than he lets on, and you are quite familiar with passive-aggression.

But those thoughts were diffusing even before Jade reassured you that John had no such agenda. As you read and reread the letter you could see only affection in between his frank words. No, if John meant to burn you the way you intend – intended – to burn him, you would know.  _Really_  know, not these flickering misgivings that look suspiciously like sincere fondness at the edges. (You don't smile when you read his letter, and you don't have it tucked away with the most precious of your belongings.)

It leads you to wonder, then, that if you initially misjudged John perhaps you have misjudged others. Perhaps John's "subtle digs" are echoes of your mother's less-than-subtle gestures, and—

"Shit." You've doubled a few stitches while you were spacing out. This is why you need to  _focus_ , you think as you remove the yarn.

Nevertheless your mind wanders, and you have to admit it's peaceful. From here on your bed you can see the snow-coated trees outside and hear the rush of the waterfall and entertain whatever thoughts you like, as long as you steer your hands every once in a while. The more you work, the more you think John is cleverer than you believed. What a thoughtful gift.

Unless, of course, he really  _was_  trying to steer you away from your therapy hobby, in which case he's going to be sorely disappointed. Knitting is giving you plenty of time to think and you'll be damned if your mind doesn't wander back to psychology. And to John. And sometimes to both at the same time.

For all his eye-rolling and complaints about your interest in psychoanalysis, he's the most willing partner you've got. Jade manages gracefully to laugh it off and change the subject and Dave calls bullshit and absconds from the conversation. John will usually toss around some grumbling and then oblige you – possibly without even realizing he's playing along.

Perhaps that's the reason you feel so comfortable talking to him. You unwind another stretch of yarn and search for some symbolism in John's choice of gift -- something to unravel, to draw out thread by thread, to pick apart. You're fairly certain the metaphor hasn't crossed his mind. It seems fitting all the same.

You'll have to thank him again in your letter. Handwritten, no sterile text on a screen. Maybe he'll be able to read the sincerity in the loops of your cursive script, genuine gratitude in your purple ink. Or at least in the stitches of this ragged bunny's carefully-crafted patches.

Maybe too carefully-crafted. You stop and frown at your work so far. There's still a good month and a half until John's birthday, you know, but your progress, admittedly, has been slow, and suddenly you're worried you  _will_  run late. John's gift to you was remarkably punctual; you'd like to extend to him the same courtesy. Anything else would seem an insult to his kindness.

You raise the bunny to eye level to examine it. Unraveled yarn dangles from its side, and you can't help it if its beady eyes make the edges of your lips twitch upwards. As much as you'd love to pretend you don't attach ridiculous sentimental value to such objects, the stuffed rabbit has lived on your bed for literally as long as you can remember. Perhaps the first in a long series of passive-aggressive gifts, a used, grimy toy when you were too young to realize the game your mother was playing. Nevertheless, you have come to cherish it somewhat, if only for the nights you fell asleep clinging to it when the sounds of rainstorms were frightening and your mother had passed out on the couch.

It's in sorry shape right now, but you have to admit your repairs are serving it well. The tear in the side is no longer bleeding stuffing and you've replaced the missing ear. Looking at its w-shaped mouth you remember why you could never bear to throw it out, despite the inordinate number of rips and smudges. A ragged exterior for a heart of gold; John would like that. He'll make better use of it, you think. It looks  _so_  much like the stuffed animal from that movie he loves, and you can imagine it perched at the edge of his bed the way it has sat on yours for so long.

Your cheeks heat up the tiniest bit when you realize how wide you're smiling at that image. But you really do hope he'll appreciate it. The more work you put into this the more you realize just how much it means to you -- your present, his present, maybe just his presence in your life. You of all people know the value of words, and in this case they simply are not enough.

John Egbert is essentially the best friend you have, and though the words to tell him continually elude you, you hope this is enough to show him.


End file.
